L'histoire francaise: Battle
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Scotland had said they'd put their alliance to the test, and France couldn't wait to pick more fights with England to do just that. / Series: L'histoire française, 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles.


Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.

Author's note: I madey-uppeyd a country incarnate, which I try to never do but had to because I cannot skip Scotland in this series of fics. So here's Seumas Kirkland, Seumas being the Scottish form of James. (I'd like to imagine Arthur tries to call him James and is always shut down for that, while Francis can call him James all he wants.) There'll be one more story with Scotland in it for this series, though neither fully flesh him out (I sort of treat him like the other characters that you already know of). If you guys want I'll write a short fic to flush him out for you, just with how I see him from what I've read of Himapapa and what I learned of Scotland from my mother. Lemme know in the reviews! :D

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><p><strong>L'histoire française<br>**Battle

"I love you so much," Francis murmurs against his lover's neck, "it hurts."

"Then let me take the pain," the man beneath him whispers. It makes the Frenchman laugh as Scottish lips find his, kissing him deeply as he moves his hips against the other man's. He might have had a hard time saying Seumas Kirkland's name, but he had no problem loving him.

"James," he moans, rolling the J in his mouth in that way that Seumas loves. Francis is the only one who's allowed to call him that, when they're behind closed doors or in secret correspondence. All the others have to putter through pronouncing it with the Scottish nations preferred accent, but not Francis. "God, I love you James."

"Good." Lips crash against each other as they struggle to contain themselves, Francis waging an internal battle for control as they make love once more. It's the passion Seumas gives him, something most other nations lack by Francis's standards. The other's lips trail across his jaw to his neck, finding one of the few patches of skin not already marked. Seumas's beard tickles his skin, bristly in a way Francis has grown to adore, as his eyes flutter closed. He runs his hand through the long red hair as his lover moves lower and the French nation thinks that maybe it's worth it to pick more fights with Arthur if it'd mean more sex with the Englishman's eldest brother.

Francis gasps when he feels himself being rolled onto his stomach, a body pressing into his back as lips trail across his shoulder blades. He moans in response, pushing up into his ally. He's the only one Francis allows to be his equal, the Scottish nation so similar to him and yet so different. He knows Seumas loves Arthur, in the same way that Francis really does love Arthur, but for both men it's strained, always had been and probably always would be. And he knows the other is too loud, likes food Francis still refuses to even be in the same room with, alcohol that's too much a commoner's thing for the French nation. But for all their countries are, Francis loves Seumas for Seumas, and he loves that Seumas loves him for who he is too.

"Frang," he catches his lover groan between his shoulder blades. It makes him smile, his heart threatening to burst. Only Seumas calls him that.

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><p>In the morning Seumas is already up, dressing quietly as light begins to stream in through the window. "James?" Francis mutters, his voice hoarse. "Where are you going?"<p>

Dark blue eyes meet his, something mischievous flashing in them. "Today," he says with pride a little too loudly for the early hour, "we wage war Frang."

The French nation's response is to roll over, complaining, "But we did that yesterday." A hand slaps his exposed ass before he feels clothes being thrown on his back. "Do I get more sex later?" he calls as the other leaves the room. The response that comes is a light laugh from a deep voice.

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><p>Francis finishes changing the bandage around Seumas's torso, the Scottish nation watching him while sipping French wine. "Thanks," the man mutters, still angry with himself; he hates being injured, a sign of unforgivable weakness.<p>

"James, stop it. You're my hero," the Frenchman sighs, leaning up to steal a kiss, then two, to lift his lover's spirits. "At least we won the battle, non?"

"Won't be the last one," the fiery redhead says as Francis lays down on the bed, his head resting on one of Seumas's thighs. "We're going to put this alliance to the test, Frang, just you wait and see."


End file.
